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Dear Mary
Remember, sweet sister, my rawness in youth;
unpolished, uncertain, unwise.
And running and hiding - confused by the truth,
protesting with rage to the skies.
When deliverance crumbled to dust and despair,
when my unyielding fury retarded;
when the flower of the forest lay withered and bare,
your spirit and beauty departed.
If Time is a healer then what does it cure?
Can it comfort an unsettled heart?
Will it give back those days of my desperate adjure
with the wisdom that decades impart?
Yet, Time has accorded some privileged grace
when danger weighed heavy on me;
your presence unfolded - I sensed your embrace,
but your vision I could not see.
I have missed your beauty, your caring, your giving,
I have mourned - awake or asleep.
But your truth is alive on the lips of the living
and forever imbued in my keep.
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